


prelude in e minor

by dawittiest



Series: the serpent under [2]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: (that's a legitimate warning), Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Bad Parenting, Christianity, Codependency, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Grief/Mourning, Jefferson gives T.S. Eliot a run for his money with gratuitous references, Mental Health Issues, Mildly Dubious Consent, Non-Linear Narrative, Power Imbalance, Pretentious, Self-Harm, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, Unreliable Narrator, gratuitous French/Greek/Latin, subtle misogyny
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-13 18:18:52
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10519212
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dawittiest/pseuds/dawittiest
Summary: a Thomas Jefferson prelude





	

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the warnings/tags. This is not a nice story.
> 
> (It doesn’t make much sense without prior reading up to Chapter 3 of _the serpent under_ so if you haven’t read it yet, go back and do that.)

I

“Mr. Jefferson?”

The voice cuts into his thoughts like a loud conversation between strangers you can’t help but eavesdrop. Belatedly, he realizes that an answer is expected from him. He blinks, the words he’s been staring at for the past few minutes swirling before his eyes. He forgot his glasses – a bad habit. He blinks again. The world comes into focus.

Dark, attentive gaze in parenthesis of heavy eyelids, made obsidian by the bristle of thick lashes. Plump, shapely lips, the pink swell of blood nearly bursting underneath the thin skin. It takes a second to put the name to the face.

“Patty.” Thomas puts down his pen but doesn’t cap it. A distracted shadow of a smile passes his own lips. “I’m sorry, what did you want?”

The corners of Patty’s eyes crinkle.

“I asked if you would like something to drink, Mr. Jefferson.” There’s a trace of mirth in her voice mingled with light exasperation. “It’s awfully hot today.”

“No, thank you, Patty, I’m quite alright.” Thomas bends down his head, looking back to the notes spread on the table before him. A faint buzzing behind his left eye forebodes impending migraine. He shakes his head. He still has so much work to do. “I’ve had ice tea with breakfast, I shouldn’t need anything till the lunch hour.”

Clink of metal on polished wood. Thomas looks up. Patty’s fingers with almond shaped nails curled around a silver tray. It catches the sunlight streaming through the crisscrossed wall of the gazebo. For a second the white flash blinds him.

“It’s almost four in the afternoon, Mr. Jefferson.” Patty’s gentle voice rolls over him. “You’ve been working without a break for over six hours.”

Thomas frowns.

“No, that can’t be right.” He glances at his watch. “Good lord! It really is that late.”

Patty covers her mouth, a soft laugh slipping through her fingers. His own lips fall half open, unsure, before Thomas gives her a polite chuckle.

“Drink the lemonade, Mr. Jefferson,” Patty says, a playful light dancing in her dark, almost black eyes. “It’s an old family’s recipe. You know, I had it made this morning.”

The heavy fabric of her dress swishes around her knees, a sound like wind playing with crinkled leaves in the fall or whisper of a prayer in quiet cathedral. Thomas watches Patty pour him a glass. A small crease appears between her knitted eyebrows. Her hand with the long, thin fingers trembles with the weight of the stocky jug. A few drops spill onto the polished wood. She grabs the jug with her other hand and sets it back on the tray shakily.

“Well, thank you, Patty,” he says, gracious. He brings the rim of the glass to his lips. The taste washes agreeably over his palate, natural fruity sweets chased by a fresh sour note. “This is really good,” he admits.

Patty beams, revealing a string of small pearl-like teeth. Thomas hides his smile behind the glass. She reminds him of a little girl who declares with an important look on her childish face that she’s cooked dinner, having been allowed in the kitchen for a moment by indulging adults, the role of hostess too big for her narrow shoulders, like her mother’s dress she hasn’t yet grown into, but even more charming for it. Patty combs her hair behind her ears – a futile effort as her springy curls bounce back into her face instantly – and inclines her head towards him.

“You should take a break,” she says. “You’ve been hunched over these papers the whole morning, sir. It can’t be healthy for you.”

“I’m exercising my mind while breathing in the fresh countryside air,” Thomas asserts, gesturing widely around the expanse of the Wayles estate grounds. “What can be healthier for man than this?”

“It’s awfully hot today,” Patty repeats. She plants hands behind her on the table, lifting herself, and flops on the hard surface with a little _thump_. The skirt of her dress flares, exposing knobbly knees. “I’m sure Pa wouldn’t want you to work yourself into the ground.” She glances down and gives him a wicked look from underneath the umber eyelashes. “And if you want, I can tell him I was the one who distracted you.”

Patty’s nails drumming on the wood, her legs swinging. Thomas catches her ankle. Patty giggles, hiding her face in the crook of her neck.

“Alright then.” He squeezes her ankle before releasing it. “I shall take a break.”

Thomas leans back in his chair, wicker creaking under the strain. Patty fixes her gaze on her lap, a small smile wandering on those sweet lips. Skin the color of terra cotta under the scorching Kashmirian sun is set out beautifully against the peach fabric of her dress. He follows the flower trail along the hem, lets his eyes linger on the camellias blooming between her breasts like the ones in Monticello garden.

“How old are you, Patty?”

She looks up and nibbles on her lip. Pink darkens into red, threatening to overflow.

“Nineteen.”

Thomas shakes his head.

“You are a child.”

“I’m not a child!” she cries, indignant. He brims with laughter. Patty flips her hair, short as they are. Loose ringlets sway back into her eyes. She shoves them away furiously. “You know, I’m a legal adult. I can do what I want.” Thomas raises his eyebrows. Her eyes flashing stormily, she jabs a finger at him. “And you’re not _that_ much older than me, Mr. Jefferson.”

Thomas closes his hand over her finger. Patty’s outrage falters momentarily. She scrunches her nose and tears her finger away with a huff.

“You’ll see what difference a few years can make,” he says with a fond smile. Patty scoffs. His smile widens. “And if not in years, then I’m older than you in experience.”

“That’s not _my_ fault,” Patty says, a whining note slipping into her tone. “I love Pa but he can be so overbearing! _I trust you, princess, but you have to trust me to know what’s best for you_ ,” she pitches her voice low, imitating Mr. Wayles’ unyielding bass. Thomas doesn’t have to strain to imagine the man saying that. He remembers that day, years back when Thomas was fresh out of college and just started his internship, when Mr. Wayles called him into his office. _Control is the highest form of trust_ , he said, one hand on his cognac glass and the other a heavy weight on Thomas’s shoulder. _Don’t forget that and you’ll go far in this game, son. Politics – and life – is all about control._ Patty is still talking. Thomas makes effort to focus on her words. “If he had his way, I wouldn’t move out from home even after I get married! He’d probably want my future husband to stay with us.” Her lower lip sticks out in a pout.

“I can’t blame him.” Patty turns to him with a wounded look in her eyes. Thomas shrugs, flashing her a disarming smile. “Your father loves you. He wants to keep you close.”

“I love Pa too but if he kept me any closer, we would be one person.” She’s silent for a moment and when she speaks again, her voice wavers slightly. “Sometimes it’s hard to sort out where he ends and my own mind begins. I think… I think I want to figure out who I am when it’s just me, if that makes sense?” Her eyes cloud wistfully. “There’s so many things I haven’t done.”

“Like what?”

The shadow passes, Patty’s face again bright as the sun.

“I want to travel! Oh, I don’t mean Pa’s favorite five star hotels that are all the same everywhere. I want to see the world.” She takes a breath, intoning solemnly, “I wanna go on an African safari, I wanna run with the bulls in Spain, I wanna swim the English Channel!” A chuckle escapes him. Patty grins, not discouraged at all. “Have you been on the French Riviera, Mr. Jefferson?”

Thomas feels his mouth curl, indulging. “I have been indeed.”

Patty grabs his hand with both of hers, eyes like a night sky twinkling with stars.

“Oh, please, sir, please tell me _everything_! Is the sea really as azure as it looks in the pictures? And those quaint little towns, oh, how is it to actually _be_ there and experience their charms? Describe it all to me that I can see it myself through your eyes.” She tugs again on her slightly puffed lip, her tone tilting upwards sweetly. “Please?”

Thomas pretends to ponder on this.

“It’s…” He stretches the pause deliberately, relishing in how Patty leans forward, drinking in every word from his lips. “It’s like a _Monet_ painting,” he decides finally, his tongue caressing the French syllables. “You know _Saint-Georges majeur au crépuscule_? The subject of this series is basilica in Venice, of course, but— the sky, the sea… it looks just like that.” A light smile ghosts over his mouth. “The façades of every building are painted salmon pink or tangerine, or yellow, and when they catch sunlight from afar they look like thick brushstrokes. The streets are splashed with flower blots, magenta and bright green, and you can get lost wandering them, hours blurring into hours. And the air… The air on the French Riviera is unlike anywhere else in the world. There’s that salty taste of the breeze blowing from the sea beneath you that mingles on your tongue with the crisp mountain air from above and right there, you can’t imagine ever wanting anything more from life.”

He blinks. Patty is gazing into his eyes, holding her breath. Thomas laughs a little self-consciously and tugs at the ends of his hair.

“It sounds like a dream,” she sighs. Then her cute button nose scrunches up. “Pa says Europe bores him. I don’t understand how a place that buzzes with so much _history_ can possibly be boring. How can you _not_ almost taste the sweat and blood of those brave men when you walk past the place de la Bastille, or not hear the echoes of the Athenians in the agora from centuries past debating into the modern times?” Patty’s eyes unfocus, looking faraway, and for a moment she herself resembles a dark-eyed beauty from old Greek murals. “Oh, what would I give to be able to get out of this place and see it all!”

“France is rich in culture and picturesque landscapes,” Thomas agrees. “And no manmade thing can compare to the perfect union of ideal form and fine craftmanship of ancient Greece.” He shakes his head. “But every place I’ve seen has only strengthened the love I have for our mother Virginia.” Patty huffs, rolling her eyes impatiently. A grin tugs at his lips. “People are too easily attracted to the shiny appeal of the foreign while they stay blind to the blessings of their own home. Why would I need to be schooled on democracy by Jacobins or ancient Athenians when I’m lucky enough to reap the benefits of the greatest political system known to man? As for beauty – look around!”

And you needn’t look far. The gazebo in which they are sited is perched on top of a small hillock overlooking the entire region. The land spreading wide and up to the faint line of the horizon seems as if covered by a rustic quilt, with patchwork of amber, shamrock green and every shade in-between. It is the time of the harvest; through the litter of straw peeks the russet brown of the pamukey soil, colored with iron and clay, that gleams in the warm September sun like shards of topaz scattered there carelessly.

If Thomas was a poet, perhaps he’d write sonnets about the puffy clouds, strikingly heather against the bright canvas of the afternoon sky, that rhyme with the cinnamon and burnt sienna tree crowns peppering the fallow grounds as if themselves Earthy nimbi. Perhaps he would compose an ode to the venerable _Quercus virginiana_ , hunched with her boughs crooked like Baba Yaga from folk tales but benevolent despite her twisted exterior, always willing to provide a cool shelter from the sun and whisper soft melodies into your ear until she lulled you into sleep.

But for all his studies, all the books he has read in English, French, Greek, Italian, Spanish and Latin, Thomas is a simple man at heart, and words, so cherished, fail him. So he just spreads his hands helplessly and says, “Whatever sights the Mediterranean coast offers, they pale in comparison to our wheat-golden and rye-silver fields and the warmth of the Virginian sun.”

He lets his hands fall to his sides. Patty’s head is tilted, a curious slope to her lips. He tries to puzzle out her expression but then she rolls her eyes exaggeratedly, breaking the spell.

“You sound like Pa. I don’t care for Virginia. I’m bored of the fields, bored of the heat, _booored_!” She flops dramatically on the table and glances at him from under her draped arm. “Is it unreasonable of me to want more excitement from life, Mr. Jefferson?”

“You’re a child,” Thomas repeats, not unbenign, “and you fall into the traps of impatience of the youth. But with time you’ll learn a wise man accepts the life he’s been given and strives to live it virtuously in accordance with the _leges naturae_.” Those onyx eyes follow his hand’s motion in the air. “Excitement is a flame that burns bright and fades fast, and is dangerous to play with. A much healthier, much more righteous philosophy is to maintain _prohairesis_. It’s a moral choice one makes not to succumb to passions,” he adds as an explanation.

Patty shifts, propping her chin on her hands. A stray tendril falls into her lovely face. She doesn’t brush it away.

“Well, if life’s thrills are so fleeting, are they not more precious for it? You are the famous champion of _the pursuit of happiness_ , Mr. Jefferson.” Her back curves gracefully, cat-like. “To pursue happiness is to seek pleasure, is that not what Epicurus teaches?”

“ _Ah_ , but his teachings are often misunderstood by laymen.” Thomas pats the top of her head lightly to ease the reproach of his words. Patty squints, looking up at his hand. “Epicureanism defines pleasure as the absence of pain and fear. So in actuality Epicurean happiness is _ataraxia_ , the state of equanimity achieved by ridding yourself of all worries. It is not dissimilar to the Stoic _apatheia_ , though while the former is considered an ideal to strive for, the latter is regarded a natural consequence of the life dedicated to _arete_.”

Patty lowers her eyes, chewing on her lower lip thoughtfully. Thomas wonders is it as soft as it looks like.

“What would then be the philosophy of happiness that says you should collect as many experiences as possible, however short-lived or carnal they may be?”

“That would be Cyrenaicism,” the words easily fall from his tongue without a need for conscious thought. His throat is dry. Patty licks her lips. “Although…”

Patty’s dress hitches, exposing an inch of her thigh. Brown skin just a shade paler than her calf.

Thomas forgets what he was going to say. He forgets what their conversation was about.

“Patty,” he whispers.

Dark, dark eyes. Not onyx. Fire agate or boulder opal, with infinite depth. A mole above the right corner of this plush mouth. Ghost of breath very warm on his face.

Soft skin under his palm, even warmer. His wide frame brackets the smaller, dainty body, hand sliding up the thigh. When did he stand up? Loose legs around his hips, not wrapping in demand but just falling open. Inviting.

“Mr. Jefferson…” Leaning on his elbows, Thomas presses against those parting lips.

A small gasp escapes her, mouth opening further, and he reaches deeper, chases her taste with his tongue. Those lips are even plusher than he thought, so pliant, moulding into the shape of his kiss. Her breasts are a sweet resistance under his weight, soft and firm both. A paradox but one that makes perfect sense in this world made of feeling. His teeth close round that tempting lower lip and tug, releasing it with an obscene wet sound.

“I think you may call me Thomas,” he says breathlessly. Patty’s eyes are squeezed shut, her chest fluttering like a hummingbird. He bends his head and sucks on the hollow of her throat.

“ _Thomas_.” Flailing hands find an anchor in his hair. They tighten, pulling, and he groans into her skin. “ _Oh_ , Tom.”

The material of her dress rustles between them. Thomas splays his hand over the smooth cloth, sensitive nerve endings humming with pleasure. It was so soft… No, it _is_ soft, though thinned and ruffled with time. A spike of alarm pierces through the fog in his head. There’s something… there’s something bothering him about this. A fallacy. He buries his face in the material, trying to push it away. But the smell is all wrong. It’s stifling and sickeningly sweet. Foul. The anchor in his hair is gone. Thomas flails, his stomach flip-flopping with a chilling rush of vertigo and—

He opens his eyes.

The sun goes out. He blinks. No, that’s another fallacy, that’s not— There’s something tickling him in the face. He props himself on an elbow – he’s lying, he’s in a bed – and looks down. It’s like a black veil has been pulled over his eyes. Slowly, faint contours emerge from the dark.  He’s lying on something soft that’s not a sheet. He squints. A dress. Why on Earth would he— a sharp barb of pain like a physical blow to his head and suddenly Thomas _remembers_.

His throat seizes up. His chest aches but it’s dull so he pushes it away. Sucks in the air between his gritted teeth. Hisses it out. There you go. He’s breathing. There’s a heavy weight pressing on his sternum but he’s breathing so it’s okay.

He rubs his eyes and winces. Why are they so sticky— _oh_. He must have fallen asleep crying. He _actually_ managed to fall asleep. That’s new, he notes. He hasn’t slept since… His mind is blank. Been a while, anyway. There’s been… people, an unending stream of gray faces after the— the funeral, and he thinks he might have thrown up, the bitter aftertaste of bile is still clinging to his tongue, and then… at some point he started drinking. It’s hard to make sense of time after that.

Thomas falls back to the matters with a huff. What time is it now? It’s dark, too dark for early morning… Where’s his watch? He has a watch, doesn’t he? He feels around his nightstand halfheartedly before giving up. Not like it matters anyway.

Trying to hold on to the last whiffs of his dream is like trying to catch smoke with bare fingers. It wasn’t a nightmare, that much he knows, that’s why he woke up so disoriented. Knuckles press into his eyes. There was… he thinks there was that dress, the one with the camellias, that Patty wore the day they—

He thinks he prefers the nightmares.

His temples pulsate with a throbbing pain but his head is all too clear.

Thomas heaves himself up and goes looking for a drink.

II

He swings the bottle to his lips. The rim slips, his hand too loose, and some of the liquid drips down his chin. The rest of it goes easily down the throat, the cheap alcohol meeting no resistance as if it was orange juice. His body stopped rebelling somewhere around noon maybe. For a fleeting moment, Thomas remarks on the very real possibility of giving himself alcohol poisoning. He tips the bottle again. It washes down smoothly. Thomas wishes for the burn.

His fingers run greedily over the fine stationery paper. He can no longer read what it says. Spilled alcohol mixed with tears, mixed with smudged ink, Patty’s neat cursive lost for the world. Thomas rubs his thumb, smearing it further. His fingertip comes back black.

Body curling around it instinctively, he buries his nose in the journal. If he closes his eyes, he can almost imagine the scent of Patty’s perfume caught between the pages. Lilies, just like the arrangement he ordered for the service. Paid a grand for it. It dwarfed the small coffin during the mass, took almost the entire space on the grave. You couldn’t even read the inscription. They had to pile up all the flowers and even then the smaller sprays had to be laid out on the ground like a crown. Walking away from the cemetery, Thomas could see her spot in the distance for a long time, a splash of greenery in the middle of drab granite desert.

The pages smell like alcohol.

Patty didn’t like him drinking. A laugh wrenches from his throat, half-way to a sob. Is doesn’t matter now, does it? She’s not there. She can’t see him. He refuses to think she can see him, wherever she is ( _she’s nowhere_ , his mind supplies, _she’s_ nowhere, no matter the pretty funeral, no matter the flowers, the fucking— masses, all the fucking masses he paid for her soul, her body’s rotting in the ground eaten away by worms and she’s _gone_ ). Surely if she could see him now, she wouldn’t just _watch_. Surely she wouldn’t be that cruel.

 _Or maybe she would_ , a bitter, twisted part of him whispers. She didn’t care before, calling a _priest_ to her bed like her death certificate was already signed and her body was just too slow to catch on. Didn’t care about getting better, her eyes glazing over when the doctors started talking about new treatments. She willfully surrendered and she made him stand by and watch. _I’m tired_ , she said. _I want to rest._

 _I’m going to see you again, Tom_.

“Well?” Thomas spreads his arms, grotesque parody of a smile twisting his lips. “What do you say? Are you _happy_ , wherever the fuck you ended up? Or am I souring your _heavenly bliss_?” He drops his arms. “I’m sorry, darlin’, but you started it. You fucked it up for me _first_.” He can imagine the hurt, slightly reproachful tone Patty used when they argued saying, _Don’t be petty, Tom. I hate when you get like this._ “One knows its kind, doesn’t it?” He raises a silent toast. “I guess now that you’re dead, it means I always get to win.”

His face crumbles.

“I _hate_ you. I fucking hate you, you hear me? We were supposed to never be apart, you _promised_ , and then you left me.” He’s shaking uncontrollably, tremors going up and down his body. “ _You left me_.”

Patty’s voice as clear in his mind as if she was alive:

“I didn’t leave you, Tom. I died. I’m dead and still the only thing you can think about is yourself.”

“I don’t care!” he howls. “You gave up! I told you I would die if you did and you gave up anyway! _You_ —” The bottle slips from his grasp and crashes on the floor. He reaches for it on instinct. Red blossoms on the broken glass like watercolors on paper. The sting registers too late. “Shit.”

Thomas examines the cut. It’s not too deep, a thin line along the length of his thumb. A small piece of glass, not bigger than a bread crumb, blinks at him. He touches it with a fingertip and then rubs it into the wound. The cut _shrieks_ with pain. He retracts his finger.

Alcohol. He needs more alcohol. He staggers clumsily to his feet. There must more alcohol somewhere. But there are only empty bottles under his bed and his stash under the bathroom sink is empty. A frustrated half growl, half wail raises in his throat. His hands clench uselessly at his sides as he paces the room, not even looking anymore, just trashing around in utter helplessness. He needs a drink, no, he needs a _distraction_ , he needs—

His eyes fall on the vanity mirror. A rasping laugh claws its way out of him, the sound broken even to his own ears. Everything is so _wrong_ but the stupid vanity is just like Patty has left it. Thomas hasn’t touched it since, didn’t have a reason to. Her stockings are swung over the chair. The black ones, that go with that red dress he likes. Her perfume is still uncorked. Leaning down, he inhales its scent. It doesn’t smell like Patty. Without the musky undertone of her skin it’s insipid, reminding him of the cold smell of chemicals. Like the funeral home where he bought the lilies for her grave. Sweet scent not able to mask the sickly stench of death lingering in the air. Swallowing a sudden surge of bile, Thomas snatches the perfume with shaking hands. He empties it all into the toilet and hurls the bottle into the trash. The ring of the glass shattering vibrates down to his bones.

He looks around frantically, squinting against the black and red spots in his eyes but _seeing_ for the first time in a long time. Patty’s diary, Patty’s poetry books she liked to read out loud to him, Patty’s piano sheets, Patty’s notes with all the inane things that used to feel important. Reminders. No— _remains_ , it’s Patty’s corpse strewn all over the floor, taunting him with echoes of her words that only make the silence she left in her wake unbearably louder. She is gone from the world and Thomas is living in her tomb with dead woman’s things for his companions. She is _gone_ and all he has of her is pale shadows cast on the cave wall, never to bask again in her warmth.

Something crunches under his foot. A book. The title shines with silver letters in the dim light of the lamp.

An inhuman _howl_ pierces the stillness of the night. Thomas realizes his mouth is open.

He drags the trash bin to the middle of the room. His fingers are trembling so bad it takes him a few tries to light up the match. It sizzles, burning his fingertips. He drops it with a surprised cry.

The trash catches aflame. He rips a page out of the book, relishing in how the tearing sound scrapes in his ears. Then he feeds it to the flame, the edge of the paper catching fire instantly. His stiff fingers uncurl, letting the page fall to the bin. It’s gone in a flash. Methodically he rips page by page, a few at a time getting impatient, and dumps the cover along with it. The blaze hungrily devours it all. Red-gold tongues writhe up to the sky laced with black smoke like the candles lit on the grave.

Patty’s diary, its smeared ink scribbles already illegible, is next. Thomas watches the fire feast on it, Patty’s deepest, most intimate feelings and thoughts, her mind, her soul eaten away like it never existed.

 _No_ , he thinks and he’s surprised by the violence of his emotion. If she never existed then he wouldn’t be drowning on air, his lungs not knowing how to breathe when she wasn’t there to breathe for. He wouldn’t be feeling like there was a gaping wound in his chest, tinge of rust behind his teeth and red soaking his shirt, getting heavier with every step he took, and trying to go on was like trying to function when an essential organ has been torn out of him. _You’re more myself than I am_ , she said once and at the time he laughed at her sentimentality but he understands now. They are part of the whole; they’ve been Tom-and-Patty for so long that he forgot how to be just Thomas. He can burn her things, try to exorcize her ghost from his life but that part of him that was _her_ can’t ever heal completely. That’s fine, he welcomes that pain. If no scars were left, it really would be as if she never was there. But the rest of the world— the world has _no_ claim on her.

He gathers Patty’s notes and loose papers in his arms. More drops than throws them into the dimming fire. It flares up, blinding bright. Half-burned scraps spewed out to the floor. Thomas crumples them in his clammy fists. Then he sits back on his heels, watching the last of what he has of Patty being chewed to ash.

So that’s what it feels like. Catharsis. No revelation, just shuddering and cold. Why is he cold— oh, there’s cool tile against his cheek. Something _awful_ crawls up to his throat. Thomas digs his blunt nails into his palms but it’s _not enough_ —god, it feels like his lungs are trying to tear themselves out of his ribcage— _calm_ , he gasps, _calm down_. He grasps blindly but there is nothing to hold on to, only broken glass scattered on the ground…

Ground. Clinging to the feeling of solidity under him, he lifts himself on shaking arms. His hand finds a shard, still sticky wet from alcohol. Thomas runs his fingertip carefully over the torn edge. His breathing evens. His grip is steady. Mind blissfully quiet, he rolls up his sleeve and puts the glass to the brown expanse of his arm.

 _People are going to see_ , a sudden whisper in his ear. _You’d have to wear long sleeves for months_. A dark chuckle swells inside him. People? He hasn’t left his bedroom for weeks.

He presses the edge into his skin.

The glass shard leaves a narrow, dented line that flashes white and disappears. Not enough force to break the skin yet. He puts the edge in the same spot, drags it harder. This time the line doesn’t disappear. It colors an alarming pink, the blood longing to spurt.

This should be easier. Maybe it’s not sharp enough? He lets the shard clatter to the floor and picks up a new one. Swift slash. But his skin just dips under the glass, again and again, and _again_ , pink and stinging but still whole.

Thomas blinks. His arm is crisscrossed with angry red marks. There’s not even a single bead of blood.

He drops the piece of glass and yanks on his hair furiously. This is useless. _He_ is useless, he’s halfway to passed-out drunk, this should be easy, he _wants_ this, _c’mon, don’t be a sissy, boy_ —

Raising his head, Thomas glances up at the smoldering trash. If he put the glass in the fire it would cauterize the wound as it went, right, maybe it would even pierce the skin easier…

A spark lands on his extended arm and he recoils, gasping. Just a pinch and then there’s a dark dot on his skin. It doesn’t even hurt now.

In a second he’s wresting the box out of his pocket and plucking a match out of the box. He considers it for a moment. Then he flips the match and puts the stick end into the fire.

It lights up instantly. Thomas brings the match to his face and blows it out. The flame is gone but there’s a bright orange glow where it’s been.

He presses the tip to his forearm.

A searing jolt of _pain_. His hand jerks back. That—that burns more than he thought. He makes himself bring the match down to that spot again and holds it there. It _stings_ , sharper than before. He grits his teeth. His arm starts to twitch, the nerves screaming at him to _stop_. Then the tangerine glow peters out and the pain vanishes.

Thomas raises his arm to his eyes. Thin white fibers are sticking out in the place he touched with the stick. Splinters, he thinks at first, and then – his insides make a weird, giddy flip-flop – he realizes it’s peeled flesh.

He picks a new match and puts its end in the fire. His hands are no longer shaking. The flame sways and flickers, inching towards his arm. But he can’t do it, already cringing from the sweltering heat before it touches his skin. _Okay_. Small steps. He blows it out again. A billow of smoke coils around it as he puts the white-orange end out on his skin. It sizzles, body flaring up with pain, before it dies out. The mark it leaves is longer, closer to a line. Reddish-brown, a few shades darker than his complexion. He could probably make it into a pattern.

With the next match, Thomas watches the flame wander up on the length of the stick until it’s close enough his fingertips start throbbing. Shaking it out, he frowns.

Then, in a bout of daring, he drops the match on his arm.

Too late, he realizes his mistake. Not just a flash of pain – oh, it’s so much _worse_ , visceral, and unrelenting. His other hand claws on his thigh, writhing. But the arm stays straight, even as he hisses and trashes on the floor. The match crumbles, black following the line of white, and suddenly— _relief_.

Thomas breathes out. Breaths in. Forces his fingers to relax.

There’s a small blister forming on the abused patch of skin. He picks on it with his nail. A chunk of the scab comes off. He can’t really feel it. The tender flesh close to his wrist tingles with phantom burn. His chest is light. His head is clear. Centered.

He fires up another match.

III

A picture before his eyes – Patty combing her hair in front of the vanity mirror.

Her dress is canary yellow, wide skirt spread around her like a half moon. The wine-red sunlight streaming through the square panels of the door-size window is fading out fast. But the pressing night doesn’t feel like an absence. If he held out his hand, Thomas thinks, his fingertips would graze the darkness, coal-black solid but soft like velvet. The room’s blurry at the edges and shadows play tricks on his eyes, swaying as if dancing and blinking at him coquettishly. He has to squint now to see. A small crystal lamp at Patty’s elbow clicks on. Golden light splinters into myriad shards that ripple on the surface of the mirror and flicker on Patty’s cheekbones, throwing them into sharp relief.

Thomas lifts himself up. The mattress doesn’t squeak, silky sleek bed sheets sliding smoothly under his fingers and when his weight disappears, they just roll back like waves, except much gentler.

Patty doesn’t look up when he steps up behind her. His fingertip brushes over the first knob of her spine. Patty’s fingers continue raking through her hair but her eyes, fixed on the vanity mirror, flutter. Thomas frowns. The dress has a bateau neckline, the brown canvas of her back covered by the constricting material, out of reach. His kiss lands on a bare shoulder.

“Tom.” Patty’s voice lilts an octave higher, displeased. Her hand freezes in the air. Closing his eyes, he rubs his nose against the spot his mouth touched.

“Tom, please.” Fissling. Fingers slithering down the stiff fabric. He dips his thumbs where he knows she has dimples at her pelvis, traces the inane prints on her dress. Her chest is quivering, sending ghost-like vibrations. Thomas mouths at the back of her neck, directly above the knob of her spine. He smiles at her raspy gasp, then scrunches up his nose. Her curls _tickle_. His left hand drifts to her hips, thumb stroking, exploring the crease at her waist. He closes his teeth over the zipper of her dress and pulls.

“No.” Warm skin under his lips. He inhales the scent. Lilies, and a sweet tinge of sweat that smells like the sultry Virginian nights in the summer. The tip of his tongue slips out, licking a circle around those protruding bones. Before he can suck on it that warmth rudely pulls away from him. A whine slips out of his throat.

“I said _no_.” Patty turns around so she can face him, clutching her hands on the back of the chair. There’s a small furrow marring her pretty face, an ugly twist to her pink lips. Thomas wants to kiss it away. “The guests are going to arrive soon.” He’s having trouble concentrating on what she’s saying; the dress, half open, has slipped down, resting on the curve of her breasts. A smooth strip of golden skin peeks out that just begs to be messed up. “I don’t want to ruin my dress.”

“So slip it off.” Looping his fingers over the edge of the material, he slides it further and presses a hot open-mouthed kiss to the revealed skin over her sternum. Patty’s fingers close in his hair and tug his head up. He lets out a low groan but then her hand pulls away.

“Patsy can come in any minute.” Patty’s frowning, her cheeks puffed up slightly. She looks so adorable that he must kiss that pouting lip.

“She’s almost eight now,” he murmurs, scrapping his teeth over her lower lip – delicately, careful not to aggravate the tender skin – and licks the taste of her lipstick. Raspberry, _mhmm_. “What do you _think_ kids talk about nowadays? She can handle a little kissing.” His hand closes over her breast. “And groping.”

“Tom!” Patty swats him on his chest, jerking back. Shaking with stifled laughter, he leans his forehead against her shoulder. She sighs and lets her fingers slide into his hair. Thomas hums, content. “I still have to get ready,” she says reluctantly.

“Nonsense,” he mumbles into her cleavage. “You look beautiful.”

Patty huffs. “Well, still, I would like to wear my pearls.”

Thomas reaches blindly. Feeling a string of beads roll on the vanity table, he closes his hand. He props his head up and tightens the choker around Patty’s throat until her breath hitches.

“You mean _my_ pearls?” he asks playfully. Patty rolls her eyes.

“You’d look ridiculous in them, darlin’.”

Thomas puts his chin on her shoulder and turns her around. Patty’s wide eyes meet his in the mirror. She drops her gaze. Sitting against her brown complexion, the pearls look like droplets of milk and honey and in turn, their reflected gleam gives her skin a golden glow.

Leaning in, he whispers directly into her ear, “I like them better on you anyway.” A shiver goes down her spine. Her midnight blue nail polish flashes in the mirror when Patty raises her hand and pats him lightly on the cheek.

“Zip me up, won’t you? The Monroes are arriving soon.”

“I’d rather—”

“Mama?”

Their heads snap to the door in unison.

Patsy hovers back, rocking on her feet in a purple flaring frock.

“There you are!” Patty jumps up, her skirt a flurry around her. “Are you all dressed up? And _what_ have I told you about calling me that? It makes me feel as old as my late mother.” A pearly laugh bubbles on her lips.

“Sorry, Martha,” Patsy mumbles. “I wanted—”

“Oh, sweetie, _no_ ,” Patty interrupts. Her eyes are narrowed, looking Patsy up and down critically. “This dress does _not_ look good on you. With how much fatty you’ve been putting on lately, you can’t expect to wear the same things you used to, hmm? I warned you, you shouldn’t have eaten all those fri-ies,” she sing-songs, patting her on the belly. Patsy wiggles away. “We have to go get you changed. Where are you going? Zip me up first.” She twirls around.

Thomas leans on the vacated chair, watching them through half-lidded eyes. Patsy’s little fingers wrestle with the zip clumsily. Patty fidgets, trying to look over her shoulder. His chest swells with some tender emotion.

“My beautiful girls,” he says in a low voice.

Patty glances at him, a light smile gracing her lips. Patsy hides a grimace in her shoulder.

The doorbell chimes at that moment.

“Oh!” Patty bounces up, clapping her hands. “The guests are here! Patsy, what are you still doing with that zipper? Hurry up! Gosh, sweetie, you’re such a klutz. Never mind, leave it. Tom, will you zip me up?” Thomas pushes himself up languidly, amusement playing on his lips. “Well, no time to change now! I guess we’ll just have to make do. Patsy, baby, push your stomach in. And stop hunching, it’s really unattractive.” Patsy’s back snaps ramrod straight. “Tom, _my_ _dress_.”

Thomas pulls the zipper up in one fluid motion and slaps Patty on the bum.

“ _To-o-om_ ,” she whines.

“Sorry,” he drawls, circling his arms loosely around her hips. “But I can’t help myself, doll.”

“Tom, _the guests_ ,” she says pointedly. Patsy makes an embarrassed squawk and dashed out of the room.

Thomas turns her in his arms and nuzzles her nose.

“Give me one last kiss.”

Patty rolls her eyes but pecks him obediently on the lips. He squeezes her ass. She gasps in surprise and he slides his tongue into her mouth. When he finally lets her go, Patty’s breathless and flushed all red. Thomas grins down at her wolfishly.

“Come on, then.”

Her cheeks are still tinted with an abashed blush when she stammers out the greetings to their guests. The smile doesn’t leave his face the entire night.

IV

After the funeral, after they put Patty’s body in the ground, Thomas calls Patsy to his study and sits her on his knee.

“It’s just you and me now, sweetie,” he says. Patty has always called her _sweetie_. “Mama’s not with us anymore.” Patsy picks at the frilly hem of her dress, not meeting his eyes. He runs his fingers through her neat hair twists – Patty had somebody do them, feels like ages ago – and presses a kiss to her forehead. “It’s you and me now.”

Patsy fidgets, butt nearly sliding off. “You smell funny, Papa.”

Sighing, Thomas strokes his hand down the line of her spine. Her back is so tense. She leans forward, heels of polished Mary Janes scraping on the wooden floor. She is a warm weight on his knee; his chest is cold. “Come on, darlin’, give Papa a kiss.”

Patsy ducks her head.

“I don’t want to.” Her blank eyes are fixed on the ceiling. “Can I go now?”

“No, don’t go,” Thomas begs. He wraps his arms around her small body and rests his chin on a bony shoulder. “Don’t go,” he mumbles. “We have only each other.”

He grabs her cheeks, turning her face to him.

“Listen to me, Patsy,” he says in an urgent low voice. Her gaze drifts to her entwined hands. “You are now the only girl in my life. You know? You’re my everything,” Patsy looks up reluctantly, “and I’m your everything. Hey,” he says softly. Her eyes squeeze closed. “Promise me something. Okay? Promise me no one will ever come between us.” He picks up her trembling fist and presses a kiss to the knuckles. “Nothing will tear our family apart. Not again. Can you promise me that, angel?”

A sharp inhale. Thomas kisses her brow, kneading the delicate bones of her wrist.

“I promise,” she says quietly, eyes downcast. Her voice hitches. “Dad…”

“Shh,” he coos. “Good girl. Such a good girl, my Patsy. What would I do without you, hm?” Closing her eyes, Patsy nestles her face against his shoulder. He holds her like that for a moment, petting her hair and humming nonsensical melodies.

Thomas’s hand on her head is starting to shake. He shuts his eyes briefly to center himself.

“Now, now, darlin’.” Shifting his hand to Patsy’s shoulder, he tries to smile at her reassuringly. His mouth feels like it’s made of rubber. “Go find Ms. Janey. Ask her if she wants to read with you, okay? Papa needs a little quiet time.”

Patsy lingers. Then she jumps to her feet, abrupt and noisy. Thomas winces. She turns to him in the doorway; her eyes are gleaming dully with something he’s too exhausted to parse. He puts the last of his strength into another one of those rubber smiles.

“You can close the door, sweetie.”

A beat. Then Patsy yanks the handle behind her. The door bangs against the frame.

Thomas barely gets to his knees in front of the toilet before he’s retching. He coughs and coughs, and coughs, feeling like something is _clawing_ at the walls of his throat. His hands slip and he knocks his forehead on the toilet seat, wheezing. Ringing in his ears, getting louder. Black, pressing into his eyes. His eyes are closed. He wrenches them open and flails to pull himself up. The ringing in his ears subdues.

He sits back on his heels. Wipes his face with the back of his hand. There’s yellowish bile in the basin. He can’t remember the last time he touched food.

Keening, Thomas mashes his cheek against the cool porcelain. The room is not swirling anymore. Only swaying a little. Cold sweat is running down his back but his body feels like it’s burning up.

He should really lay down. Not sleep – he has no delusions he’ll get any sleep tonight – but at least try to rest. But.

He can’t go back to _that_ bed.

The bedsheets don’t smell like Patty. The usual clutter on her nightstand is all cleared out. It’s been that way long before she died. He’s been sleeping in this bed alone for weeks, Patty and her things in the hospital, he’s used to it and Thomas—

Thomas _hates_ this. He hates how easily life mends around the hole where she’s been. So he picks on that wound, not letting it heal. Pain is better than numbness. He frowns. The metaphor is slipping from him. Just— he wants something, _anything_ of her.

He thinks about Heathcliff, wishing for Catherine to haunt him after her death. Patty loved that stupid book. Thomas wonders if she would find it _romantic_. Him, with his face in the toilet bowl, trying to throw up the emptiness inside him along with the alcohol. Would she still be able to mask with pretty words the ugliness they were describing.

It was the last weekend of September, the weather too chilly for them to be laying on the bare grass in the garden but both of them weren’t ready to let go of the last of the summer yet. Thomas laced his left hand with hers, marveling at how exquisitely the diamond’s sheen was set out against her brown finger, radiating despite the gray, cloudy sky.

He still couldn’t believe that this girl was _his_.

“I could never say no to you, Tom,” Patty told him sweetly. She pushed herself up from where she had her head propped on his abdomen and turned around, looking into his eyes. “I will never say no to you. You understand me better than I even understand myself. Sometimes I think you’re more myself than I am.” Her left hand curled around the side of his face, stroking. “Whatever our souls are made of, yours and mine are the same.” Thomas laughed into her palm.

“It’s Emily Brontë. Have you been reading _Wuthering Heights_ again?”

Patty clicked tongue irritably, making a half-hearted effort to stand up. He nuzzled her hip.

“That doesn’t make it less true,” she huffed. Thomas just smiled then, not giving much attention to what she said.

 _If I am you_ , he didn’t ask, _and you are dead,_ _then what does it make me?_

He thinks, _I guess I know now_ , and buries his head in the toilet, coughing up a new wave of bile.

V

“Picnic!” Patty said gleefully, dropping a wicker basket on Thomas’s papers on the table in front of him. “The summer is fading fast and we should make the most of the beautiful weather!” She shook the basket enticingly. “I packed us lunch!”

So – a picnic. They spread a thin handwoven blanket on the meadow a mile south from the Wayles mansion, where they’re tucked in by woodland hillocks, their vibrant green so bright as if squeezed fresh from the paint tube.

The lunch turns out to be pre-made sandwiches and a mix of fruit. They share a bottle of carrot juice that Patty pours them into vintage enamel cups that are part of a full crockery set. It looks brand new.

“I’ve never really had anyone to do this with before,” she confesses, absently tugging on a ringlet of hair. It bounces when she releases it with a shrug. “So it’s been pretty much just collecting dust in the attic. I’m not sure though what are we supposed to do now we’re done with the food?” the lilting timbre of her voice makes it into a question.

Thomas gestures around them with a lazy sweep of his hand.

“What else?” he asks rhetorically. “Sit back and enjoy the view, of course.”

“ _Of course_ ,” she echoes, sparks of amusement in her eyes. His lips pull in a grin.

Easy silence falls on them. Patty picks a daffodil and blows on it. The white fluff swirls in the air, some of it catching on her hair. Outstretching his hand, Thomas flicks it away with a chuckle. Patty giggles, care-free, and props herself on her elbows. Her summer hat tilts rakishly on her head.

“Read to me,” she says with a smile.

Thomas looks around, widening his eyes exaggeratedly.

“What would you like me to read?” he drawls. “I’m sure they have a fine selection in the nature’s library.”

It’s not really funny but Patty laughs nonetheless. She pushes herself up and reaches for her bag.

“There’s this book I’m reading,” she says, rummaging inside. The broad brim of her hat slides down on her face. Thomas grabs the white ribbon dangling from it and twirls it around his finger. Patty pauses for a moment, giving him a soft smile over her shoulder. “I picked it up because I liked the title but I don’t really understand it. Anyway…”

She straightens up with a triumphant _ha!_ and a book in her hand. Thomas lets the ribbon fall, a striking white line against her raven curls. He takes the book from her, glancing at its cover, black with a silver art deco motif. His eyebrows climb on his forehead.

“Is that why you asked me about the French Riviera?”

Patty’s cheeks color a cherry red. Thomas laughs again.

“Well, not exactly.” She shifts into a cross-legged position, tugging the powder blue material of her dress over her knees. “I do want to go there someday. That’s part the reason why I started reading this. I thought it would be like, a glamorous romance or something.” Her nose scrunches up. “But it’s… weird.” She hugs her legs, ankles crossed, and rests her head on them. “Disturbing.” Her frown deepens.

“I’ll say,” Thomas murmurs, leafing through the book.

“There’s a poem at the beginning,” she says, her voice muffled with her cheek mashed into her knees. “Read that to me?”

Thomas flips back to the first page. It always made him nauseous when he was made to perform recitals back in school but Patty’s eyes are wide on him, open and filled with child-like awe, so he clears his throat and reads:

“Already with thee! tender is the night,

… But there is no light,

Save what from heavens is with the breezes blown

Through verdurous glooms and winding mossy ways.”

A sudden squall of wind surges, chasing the puffs from daffodils like dust bunnies around the meadow. Patty shivers. The dark cloud that’s been looming in the sky drifts closer, casting a long shadow on them.

“We should go back,” she says.

They gather their things in a rush and scurry up and down the hillocks to find shelter. The rain catches them anyway.

VI

Patty’s hair is brushing her shoulders, the longest she’s had it. Shiny headful of ringlets, dark brown the same shade as her eyes, is framing her flushed round face. She looks distracted; her smile is not in a curve of the lips but rather in the lines around her mouth and just a hint of teeth. Only the spaghetti straps of her dress are visible in the photograph, a bright color bringing out the amber undertones in her skin.

(Same place, different day. Patty beaming up at him, her face glowing despite the smudged makeup around her eyes from tears. Her smaller hand shaking in his as he slips the ring on her slim finger. The silken feel of her dress against him in the church and later, shimmering in a pool on his bedroom floor.)

His seat is at the front of the nave, with a good view on the flower-adorned coffin and the altar. With a good view on _him_ , for the rest of the mourners. Thomas wonders how many of them are here for the spectacle. There is a news van parked on the other side of the street. He knows he’s— his hair is dirty, his suit is a mess. He doesn’t care. Patsy’s by his side. She’s quiet, her gaze fixed on Patty’s smiling photo. She was a chatterbox the whole ride over; Thomas leaned his face on the car window and let her babbling lull him to a half doze. Then suddenly right before they stepped over the church threshold she burst out with loud sobs. Her face is dried now but her eyes are glassy and her jaw is trembling like it’s going to shatter any minute. He reaches out and entangles his fingers with hers tightly.

(His seat is at the front of the nave, Patty’s by his side, and even though the church is packed with people, it feels like there’s only the two of them in the room. Eyes on him, Thomas repeats the words told him by the priest in a low intimate voice, his gaze fixed on Patty. He’s not flustered by the attention – he basks in it, wants the whole world to know she’s _his_. Patty’s crying again, silent tears of happiness shining on her face, thoroughly ruining her makeup. Never has she been more radiant than in this moment. She reaches out and entangles her fingers with his tightly.)

Thomas closes his eyes and lets his head fall on the back of the chair, drifting. The organ rouses from its slumber, leading with the first dark notes into its weeping song. Echoing voices soar high to the sky, crashing together like sea waves during a weltering storm. The air is stifling with a sudden heaviness.

_I am weary with my groaning_

_all the night make I my bed to swim_

_I water my couch with my tears_

_Mine eye is consumed because of grief…_

(A gentle melody washes over the church. Patty’s angelic voice lilts in perfect unison with the singing choir.

_…thou shalt eat the labour of thine hands_

_happy shalt thou be, and it shall be well with thee_

_thy wife shall be as a fruitful vine by the sides of thine house_

_thy children like olive plants round about thy table…)_

Thomas presses his fist into his mouth and bites the knuckles until a coppery taste explodes on his tongue.

VII

“I’m going to die, Tom.”

His head slips from his hand and his jaw clacks painfully on his knees. Thomas blinks the stars from his eyes. He’s fully awake now.

Patty’s been laying so still in the bed, her face on the pillow obscured by a shadow, that he thought she was sleeping. But her eyes are wide open, staring blankly at the wall.

“Now, why would say such a thing?” He takes her hand, suppressing a shudder at how cold it is, and presses it to his lips. “You’re not going to die, silly.”

Wincing at the creak in his neck, Thomas drags the hard plastic chair closer to her bed and tucks the blanket around her tighter.

“I’m going to die.” He freezes in his movements. Patty’s eyes are fixed on the wall, a stubborn twist to her lips. Something dense and dark like pitch is filling his lungs.

“You’re in good care,” he says carefully. “The medicine works miracles today, you’ll be back on your feet and laughing at how— how silly you were to worry in no time, you’ll see.” Patty closes her eyes. Thomas swallows a sudden dryness in his mouth.

“I won’t make it.” Her voice is quiet but firm. The black mass in his chest turns to stone.

“The doctors…”

“The doctors don’t know,” Patty cuts him off sharply. Her hand twitches in his grasp. “I know my own body. I can feel it.” She opens her eyes like windows to a rain at nightfall. “I am tired, Tom. Everything hurts so much. I think I’d rather die than live like this any longer!”

“Don’t say that,” Thomas croaks out. “Please don’t say that. You’re going to get better and you’re going to regret this inane talk, okay.”

“But I won’t,” Patty insists. A whiny note creeps into her voice. “I’m going to waste away in this bed. I don’t think I even want to get better anymore. I just want to rest.”

“Stop,” he snaps. “Stop it! You’re acting like a child. You want to die? Did you think about Patsy? Did you think about _me_?” She flinches. “How do you think it makes me feel to hear you say— say that—” He chokes up.

“Don’t yell at me,” she wails. Tears spill from her eyes, streaking her cheeks silver. He’s crying now, too.

“How can you be so selfish?” Grabbing her face in his hands, he mashes their foreheads together. “I will _die_ if you leave. We’re like the same person. I am _nothing_ without you, don’t you understand—”

“I’m sorry,” she gasps. “But I’m tired and I’m scared, and I _need you_ —”

“I’m tired and scared, too!” He can barely get the words out, his lips are shaking so bad. “I don’t know how to do this, okay? _I don’t know how to do this_.”

Patty yanks her clammy fingers from his hand, her face contorted with a brittle snarl. “Do you think it’s easy for me? I’m the one who’s— _dying_.”

“Shh, shh, you’re not going to die, you’re not going to die.” He combs the greasy curls sticking to her forehead with sweat away and peppers her spectre-thin skin with kisses, the bony, frail wrists, her pulse points so he can feel the faint throbbing under his mouth, the soft inside of her elbow. “You’re _not_.”

“I’m so _scared_ , Tom,” she weeps.

“Hush, now, darlin’. I’m sorry I raised my voice but it’s _killing_ me to see you like this and you were saying all those things— Please stop crying,” he begs, tears running down his own face.

They stay like that, Thomas on his knees and Patty trembling in his arms, every little hitch of her breath like a spike jabbing into his heart.

Slowly her breathing evens out. He closes his eyes, feeling the rise and fall of her chest.

“Read to me.” He looks up. Patty bites her lip. “Please?”

Thomas stares. Then he nods jerkily and reaches for the black-and-silver book on the nightstand. He chokes on a half-laugh, half-sob when he realizes _what_ book it is.

“I’ve never actually finished it,” Patty says, her tone almost apologetic. “I figure I should give it another try since… since…”

“Shh,” Thomas shushes around the lump in his throat. “Don’t talk any more. Rest. I’ll read to you.”

He opens the book on the marked page and begins reading in a quiet, measured voice. Patty’s eyelids slip closed after a while. Thomas goes on for a few pages more, watching her from the corner of his eye, until he’s assured she’s asleep. He slips the bookmark between the pages and puts the book back on the nightstand.

“Tom…” Not asleep, after all. Her voice is a tiny whisper. He leans down to her lips. “You know I haven’t… I haven’t got to see the French Riviera.”

“When you get better, I’m going to take you there,” Thomas promises and means it with his entire being.

Patty slumps into her pillow, exhaling a soft sigh. He rests his head on her lap and lets his own eyes fall shut.

He’s woken up by beeping and a swarm of feet rushing into the room. A nurse practically pushes him into the hallway. His back hits the wall, his legs giving way under him, and he slides to the floor.

They call it at 11:45 pm.

At 00:15 Thomas gets a drink.

XVIII

The air in Paris is nothing like on the French Riviera. Thomas pulls his scarf over his mouth. The flimsy silk doesn’t allow for much breathing and in the stale city microclimate, palpable waves of heat radiating from the asphalt not stirred even by a slightest gust of breeze, he feels like he’s slowly suffocating. It makes for lousy protection anyway; swallowing, his throat prickles and he may be imagining it but he can taste the bitter dust settling in his lungs. Thomas wrangles the useless scarf from his neck, other hand swinging the building door open.

The tenement is old, practically ancient. The last time any renovation’s been done here must’ve been at the turn of the century. The paint on the walls is peeling off, indeterminate color under the layer of dirt, which along with the gray concrete floors streaked with the thin strips of sunlight peeking through the grated windows that are the only source of light give the place a forlorn look. The cracked glass on the staircase door has vulgar graffiti – something involving anal sex and soccer – spray-painted on it. There’s no elevator. Leaning on the iron balustrade for support, he starts climbing up the steep spiral stairs.

Nearing the first floor, he can already hear the faraway piano music. He stops for a second to catch his breath and listens. He vaguely recognizes the piece. Thomas resumes his journey up, the music growing stronger with every step.

When he reaches the fourth floor, his destination, it’s almost as clear as if he was in the room. Thomas glances at his watch – there’s five minutes left – and then leans on the wall, letting his eyelids fall.

 _Oh_ , he recognizes the piece. It was one of Patty’s favorites. He imagines her like she liked to sit in their drawing room, behind the oak piano engraved with floral ornaments which she inherited from her great aunt. Her elegant, nimble fingers dancing on the keys, a striking brown against the backdrop of ivory.

It starts with a soft, wistful tone like a wisp of smoke billowing in the black-and-white cities of the nineteenth century. Rising and falling in cadence, high notes – fresh droplets of a rushing spring drizzle laced with night storm’s low rumble. The satiny sequence ends on a high, sorrowful note, lilted up as if in a question, and loops.

Fade into silence. Then! _A thunder_. The melody unfurls, each beat weaving new threads into its fabric. Murmur of polite conversation and the swish of crinoline and silk dance into the song, followed by clink like rain tears trickling across the glass window.

A gasp of a pause. The music picks up, a sweet, quiet lament about longing for a country he doesn’t know but with stretches of sandy fields and rolling lines of birches and cottonwoods that feel familiar. Then the rhythm gallops as if running down the stairs and once more shifts into something tender and gentle like a sweeping wind caressing the strands of sun-burnt grass.

The motif returns but it’s colored by the echoes of sadness and loss. The fingers on the piano linger, as if hesitating, and then hit the last haunting note.

The music stops but he doesn’t move. There’s shuffling, muffled voices and then the sound of a door knocking against its frame.

“Papa?” Patsy’s voice. Thomas opens his eyes. She’s standing a few steps back with her piano sheets hugged to her chest, watching him. “The class is over.” She bites her lip, apprehension written on her face. “Are you— are you alright?”

“Why wouldn’t I be, sweetie?” He tries to give her a smile. Patsy’s eyes are big on him.

“You’re crying.”

Thomas touches his face. His fingers come up wet.

“Oh, that’s…” he trails off, not knowing what to say. “I just— I really like this piece. It’s nothing.” Patsy’s still looking at him like he’s grown a second head so he puts more effort into his smile. “Come on.”

Stepping out to the street, his chest is heavy in a way that has nothing to do with the smog and he swears he hears a nightingale singing in the distance.

IX

Thomas kneels.

His joints crack, knees hitting the floor with a dull thud. Wood scrapping on the material of his pants. He shifts his weight, fiddling with his hands, not sure what to do with them.

He picks on the blister on his arm. The skin comes off easy, wax-like. He tugs on the dangling strip of skin. It pops. No burst of pain. Skin is numb, deadened. He digs his nail deeper. It’s going to scar badly. A gaping hole where once was smooth flesh. He scratches the new layer of pinkish skin. Nothing.

A small exhale escapes his lips. He doesn’t know how to do this. Thomas picks on the burn again. He probably shouldn’t do that. Words come to him without having to think: _know ye not that your body is the temple of the Holy Ghost which is in you, which ye have of God, and ye are not your own?_ Laugh hitches in his throat, an ugly, brittle thing. What does it say about him that he can quote with ease whole passages from Bible and yet he doesn’t know how to _pray_?

Patty prayed every night. She’d kneel by the bed where he is kneeling and put her hands together like the baroque angels from marble, bowing her head silently. He’d tease her ( _D’you always have to pray before we have sex_?) and she would slap him lightly and say, _don’t blaspheme,_ and they’d roll around on the bed, him blowing raspberries into her skin until she’d surrender and—

He finds the burn and claws on it before he remembers he’s not supposed to do that.

His head is empty. His knees ache.

 _“_ O Lord,” he says. English feels oddly strange on his tongue. Thomas lets out a shaky breath and starts anew in Latin.

_O Lord. I have sinned against you. I am not asking for absolution. I feel no repentance so I cannot ask for that. The truth is, I don’t believe. There is no Hell. There is no Heaven. You can’t believe in one if you don’t believe in the other but I have accepted this is the only life I will ever get. That means there is no God either and I’m a just madman talking with a silent voice in his own head. I have accepted this, too. I’m willing to become worse if that’s what it takes. And so I’m not asking for forgiveness but even though I don’t believe, I am asking for mercy._

_O Lord. Please help me believe. Like a good shepherd, bring this wayward lamb home. Please bring me back to Your light. They say faith gives you peace. Give me peace. I am not worthy of Your love but please have mercy and deliver me from suffering anyway. They say God is gracious so please, o Lord, have grace upon me._

_It is said:_ Iustus perit et nemo est qui recogitet in corde suo veniat pax. _I want to believe it; I want to believe she’s in a better world. I want to believe that You have torn her from me so I could shake my fist at heaven and curse Your name and find solace in that. I_ want _to but I don’t believe, I don’t._

 _O Lord. Please. Please tell me what to do. Please please please o Lord_ please

 

There is no answer. Thomas never really expected one.

 

_Amen._

X

_This is how it goes—_

“Ladies and gentlemen, this is your Capitan speaking. On behalf of the entire crew, welcome aboard the American Airlines flight to Paris…”

The dull voice is seeping through the crackling speakers, words blurring into one. Thomas leans his head against the small window, looking out without seeing the stretch of grass, numb to the cold on his skin. The edges are fuzzy – he’s forgotten to put in his contacts this morning. His glasses are in the bag under the seat; he doesn’t move. He squints. The world blurs further but the dark silhouette hovering before his eyes does not falter.

When Thomas woke up later that evening, he nearly convinced himself that Madison’s visit had been just a very vivid alcohol-fueled dream. Only a few details didn’t fit the picture. The blunted ache of his head, instead of slicing-sharp stab. The clean bathrobe he was wearing that smelled faintly of soap. The fire on his left cheek.

Groaning, he rolled off the bed. His bare feet slapped on the wooden floor, sticky with sweat. His hand fumbled with the switch and he winced against the glaring bathroom light. Half-blind, he turned on the sink and splashed himself with ice-cold water. Blinking, he looked in the mirror.

The left side of his face was swollen, the tender skin beginning to take on a purple tint. Thomas pressed two fingers to it. His eyes flashed red and black with pain. He dropped his hand. Exhaled.

Then he got dressed, for the first time since the funeral.

He doesn’t remember much of that day. What Madison said. What _Thomas_ said. God, what he said. There’s just Madison, his shoulders impossibly wide in the gray tailored suit and his hair a neatly combed billow of black smoke, crisp-clear despite the tears fogging his eyes.

He bangs his forehead on the window. It doesn’t help much. His fingers itch to scratch the burns on his arm. He clenches his hands into fists.

 _Why_ did Madison come to see him? They weren’t friends. They barely were acquaintances. But then _why_ did Thomas revealed so much about himself to him already, more than he’s told anyone in such a short span of time? And _why_ can’t he get the memory of Madison’s dark, dark eyes on him from his head?

Unbidden, his hand slips into his pocket, closing over his phone. He hasn’t contacted Madison since that much agonized over _Yes_. Part of him wants to never contact him again. Take the easy way out, let the time and distance between them do their job. Ensconce himself in France for the rest of his life if it means not having to touch the tangled nest of vines at the bottom of his stomach.

His forehead slips on the glass. He doesn’t want that, not really. He wanted to drink himself to death in his bed in Virginia, then Madison has told him to deal and get on with life and here he is, on a flight to France. That means… something.

He flips out his phone.

> **to: Jemmy**
> 
> what souvenirs do ya want from paris

Immediately after he hits the send he panics and turns his phone off. Then he turns it on because obviously that won’t un-send it. Idiot. He chews on the inside of his cheek, waiting for an answer.

> **from: Jemmy**
> 
> I don’t particularly care as long as it’s not a light up Eiffel Tower.

Thomas lets out a whoosh of air he didn’t realize he was holding. He pockets his phone and leans back on the window. His left cheek is tingling. The vines in his stomach squirm. He tries not to think about it.

_You accept the nomination and you and Patsy go to France_

 

Taking advantage of the moment when the table’s attention is turned to Ben Franklin’s bawdy story, Thomas leans in to Patsy.

“What’s the matter, sweetie?” he murmurs. She doesn’t look up from her plate – nearly as full as it’s been at the beginning of the dinner – pushing the mashed potatoes around with her fork. “C’mon, dig in!” He tries to lace his voice with enthusiasm.

“I’m not hungry.” Patsy kicks her feet against the legs of the table. “Can I be excused?”

“No,” Thomas sighs. “Patsy, look.” Shooting a quick glance to ensure Franklin’s still monopolizing the attention, he lowers his voice. “You can’t keep doing this. _Patsy_.” She meets his eyes with a petulant look. “I need you to be a big girl for Papa, okay? I know— I know it’s not easy.” Averting her face, Patsy sinks deeper into her chair. He stifles another sigh. “It’s hard on me too, I— I miss your mom as much as you do.” Her chin wobbles. He squeezes her thigh under the table reassuringly. “And I wish things were different, but they’re not, and we have to carry on regardless. You’re a smart girl, I know you understand. Right?”

Thomas watches her, stiff-shouldered with her eyes fixed on her plate. Then Patsy deflates, hunching in her seat.

“Yeah,” she whispers. He flashes her a pale smile.

“Good girl,” he says, squeezing her thigh again. “You’re my little angel, you know that? I don’t know what I would’ve done without you.” The rowdiness from Franklin’s side of the table is dying off. He sends her one last smile, saying, “Finish your potatoes, sweetie.”

As Thomas tunes in to the conversation, he sees Patsy from the corner of his eye raising her fork to her mouth.

 

_You go to France_

_(because both of you need to get away from this place)_

 

Barely half an hour into the lunch, Lafayette puts down his Expresso cup with a decisive clink, directing the full force of his piercing eyes on Thomas. The voice dies in his throat, whatever he's been talking about escaping him. Lafayette doesn’t call him out on it, apparently expecting this.

“Look,” he begins, for once the melodic lilt of French not soothing to Thomas’s ears. “Don’t misunderstand me. It’s really good to finally see you in person. But. I’m getting the impression your mind is not here with me at all, am I right?” Despite his wording, it’s not really a question.

Thomas rubs the back of his neck sheepishly.

“I’m sorry,” he says with a weak smile. The pensive frown on Lafayette's forehead darkens. “I’ve been a lousy guest, haven’t I?”

“No need to apologize.” Lafayette shrugs easily. “That’s not why I brought this up. Frankly, I've expected it given,” he makes a careful pause, “everything.”

The intensity of his gaze is a physical weight on Thomas. He pinches his eyes, running his hand over his face.

“Thomas…” Reluctantly, his eyelids flutter open. There’s an unbearable softness to Lafayette’s face. Thomas fixes his gaze on his clasped fingers. “Since you arrived, you haven’t once mentioned Martha.”

“Should I?” What he really means is, _do we really have to do this_? The expectant silence is an answer enough. Thomas blows out a stuttering sigh. “I don’t know what there is to say,” he says honestly. “She’s dead.” He detests how his voice still wavers at the word.

“I think there is plenty to say.” Lafayette’s tone is gentle, free of judgment. Thomas digs in his nails into his palms. “You lost your lover and your companion. You’re now an only parent to your daughter.” He’s matter-of-fact but not cold. There’s a lump forming in Thomas’s throat. “I can’t imagine your pain,” he says simply. “But I can imagine it’s a lot to deal with on your own.”

“I—” He knows what Lafayette is hinting at. He shakes his head. “I can’t talk about this right now, I’m sorry, I can’t.” That they’re talking _tête-à-tête_ shouldn’t make a difference because it is _Lafayette_ , Thomas has poured out his soul to him in countless messages and emails exchanged between them through the years, but those sharp eyes are like knifes cutting into his flesh, and it _shouldn't_ make a difference but it does. Blinking furiously against the sudden wetness in his eyes, Thomas tries for a crooked smile. It comes out more like a grimace. “With all the crying I’ve done for the past few weeks, you’d think I’d finally run out of tears, huh? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall apart on you. I’m normally more fun in person,” he says wryly.

“You don’t have to apologize to me,” Lafayette says. “You don’t have to tell me anything if you don't want to either.”

“I should—”

“There is no ‘should’ when it comes to feelings. They tend to defy the laws of logic, you know.” At his dubious expression, Lafayette laughs quietly. “ _Humana humane ferenda,”_ he quotes with a quirk of an eyebrow. “Emotion and reason are two sides of the same coin, my friend. And it’s a good thing.”

“Doesn’t feel like it,” Thomas croaks.

“That’s because you’re so used to being Mr. Smart man that when you can’t make sense of something, you shatter. Stop it.” He taps his forehead, smirking a little. “I can hear it buzzing. You can’t argue your way out of grief.”

“I can _try_ ,” Thomas mutters. Lafayette shakes his head.

“That’s not healthy.” Thomas opens his mouth but Lafayette raises his hand, because he’s seemingly omniscient. “Neither is burying yourself in depression. As always, my friend, you have to find the golden mean.”

Wrangling his hands, Thomas chews on that. Lafayette’s the one who breaks their silence.

“Pardon me for presuming,” he says. “But you look like you could really use a hug.”

Thomas stares. Lafayette’s mouth twitches and suddenly he collapses in a fit of giggles.

“Apologies,” he gasps out. “I-ah, that’s not funny, it’s not but— God, your _face._ "

He swings up from his seat, still snickering under his nose, and coaxes Thomas out of his chair. “Come ‘ere, you.”

Unresisting, Thomas lets Lafayette pull him against his chest. He can’t remember the last time he did this. His stomach jumps a little at the realization that probably the last person who hugged him was _Patty_. Lafayette’s a stark contrast to her, all corded muscle and strength where Patty was soft and pliable.

At first Thomas stands with his hands hanging awkwardly, just letting himself be held. It feels weird; they’re of similar built, Lafayette just half an inch shorter and slightly bulkier than him. Not bad weird though. Belatedly Thomas hugs him back. Lafayette's arms tighten around him and that seems break some kind of a dam in him.

He mashes his face into the crook of a wide shoulder, choking on loud, tremulous sobs, and holds on to the other man for dear life. Lafayette's grip is strong and he doesn't say anything but even his silence is comforting. So Thomas doesn’t try to find words either, just shaking in his grounding embrace.

It passes as soon as it came over him. He takes a step back and Lafayette drops his arms. His chest feels empty. It’s an oddly good feeling. Sniffling, he wipes his faces with a cuff of his shirt. He swallows a spike of embarrassment.

“I’m so—”

“If the next word out of your mouth is ‘sorry’, I’m going to beat your ass.” There’s a flicker of mirth in Lafayette’s eye that eases the harshness of his words. A chuckle escapes his mouth, surprising him.

“Hah—okay. Okay, what about – _thank_ you.”

“You’re very welcome."

Thomas chuckles again a little self-consciously and a knot in him unravels. Lafayette sits back down, a hint of a smile on his lips, and he follows suit. He lets out a long shaky exhale. When he takes a new breath, for the first time in a long time the air feels light.

 

_—_ _and you learn to live with this._

**Author's Note:**

> I wasn’t kidding with that “Jefferson gives T.S. Eliot a run for his money with gratuitous references” tag.
> 
> Some references:
> 
> \- Fryderyk Chopin
> 
> The title of the story is of course a reference to Chopin’s prelude no. 4 in e minor. The piece Patty/Patsy play on the piano is his polonaise no. 4 in c minor. I highly recommend you listen to both.
> 
> \- _Treny_ Jan Kochanowski
> 
> The story is divided into X parts which correspond thematically with those of Kochanowski’s _Treny_ (laments). This series of poems was a huge inspiration for me while writing this.
> 
> \- _Pan Tadeusz_ Adam Mickiewicz
> 
> All nature descriptions are inspired by the evocative nature descriptions in _Pan Tadeusz. The wheat golden and rye silver fields_ is directly paraphrased from the invocation. Also, Thomas’s argument with Patty over the beauty of Virginia vs the beauty of foreign countries mirrors the famous argument between the titular protagonist of _Pan Tadeusz_ and his love-interest-slash-it’s-complicated.
> 
> \- Bible
> 
> Corinthians 6:19 and Psalm 6 and 128 fragments are quoted from King James Bible version, which is the one the Founding Fathers knew. The (incomplete) Latin quote (Isaiah 57:1 _the righteous perish and no one understands that they are taken away to be spared from evil_ ) is taken from Vulgate. (Side note, originally I was going to translate Thomas’s prayer into Latin but that seems like too much effort for no good reason.)
> 
> \- _Wieś_ Stanisław Jachowicz
> 
>  _People are too easily attracted to the shiny appeal of the foreign while they stay blind to the blessings of their own home_ is a loose paraphrase of the famous line from this poem, _Cudze chwalicie, swego nie znacie._
> 
> \- _Ode to Nightingale_ J. Keats
> 
> The epigraph from the book that Thomas reads at the picnic is a fragment from this poem. I'm not telling what the book is, you have to guess :D.
> 
> \- _Wuthering Heights_ Emily Brontë
> 
> Patty quotes it, saying, _[he’s] more myself than I am. Whatever our souls are made of, [his] and mine are the same._
> 
> \- _Jefferson in Paris_  
>  It may be a shitty movie (and boy, what a shitty movie it is) but it nevertheless inspired Jefferson’s talk with Patsy after the funeral. I may be quoting it loosely there.
> 
> \- _Bates Motel_
> 
> This is where _I will die if you leave. We’re like the same person_ comes from. I don’t know, my brain makes weird connections sometimes.
> 
> \- Lenin (yep, you read that right)
> 
>  _Trust is good but control is better_ , paraphrased sometimes erroneously as _Control is the highest form of trust_ are words said by Lenin. Is that just a post-soviet thing or do all parents tell that to their children?
> 
> \- _Oscar_ (yes, Sylvester Stallone _Oscar_. Again, my brain makes weird connections)
> 
>  _I wanna go on an African safari, I wanna run with the bulls in Spain… I wanna swim the English Channel!_ Patty’s quoting Lisa from the play. Jefferson’s laughing at her because Lisa’s character is meant to be comic.
> 
> \- Polish culture
> 
> This story is so rooted in Polish culture that it’s impossible for me to list all the works and people that inspired me. My depiction of religion is influenced by this, too. I don’t want to label it as Catholicism because obviously neither Jefferson nor Martha Walyes Jefferson were Catholics but in a story so inherently Polish it would feel wrong to depict it differently. So: 1. _licentia poetica_ , 2. this is basically a Polish au.
> 
> \- Greek philosophy
> 
> My evoking ancient Greek philosophers and not, say, Kant or Bacon is deliberate on my part. Jan Kochanowski (the same one whose laments inspired this fic) was an avid Stoic until his daughter’s death completely shattered his worldview. In a nod to that, I portray Jefferson’s philosophy closer to Kochanowski’s instead of sticking with a more historically accurate depiction. Like I said, this is basically a Polish au.
> 
> This is officially the most pretentious thing I’ve ever written. But it is Thomas “Extra” Jefferson so I feel partially justified.
> 
> Martha Wayles Jefferson aka Patty is played by **Gugu Mbatha-Raw** in this fic and in _the serpent under_ series.
> 
> Please validate me with comments.


End file.
